Hospice Night Thoughts
Some hospice nights I write pretentious poetry
while stealing last glances at my sleeping mother,
transpiring events making up for my lack of a real voice,
mixing cliche similes with over-egged metaphors,
trying to make sense of all this shit as it festers.
Other hospice nights I watch brain-rotting illegally-downloaded
episodes of whatever is sufficiently emotionally manipulative.
Most hospice nights I make squeaky scrunching noises
on the fake leather recliner and stare up at the 12″ television
with its neck mounted on the wall, face blank like some uninspired robot.
Wouldn’t it be better if a neon mouth appeared on the screen and said
“Hey you self-absorbed cunt…why don’t you tell it like it is for once, like I do?”.
I guess you’re right, Television.
Enough of this densifying, this hyperbole injection.
Enough of this romanticism, this prettified inflection.
Tell it like it is, Deborah. (but please don’t refer to yourself in the third person while you do it)
WHY CAN’T I BE MORE FUCKED UP, TELEVISION?
That ship has sailed, Deborah. It’s over now.
Guess we are all in a fantasy…in mine, i’m renegade.